The Curse of Yig

by H. P. Lovecraft and Zealia Bishop

Written 1928Published November 1929 in

Weird Tales

, Volume 14, Number 5, Pages 625-36.In 1925 I went into Oklahoma looking for snake lore, and I came out with a fear of snakes that will last me the rest of my life. I admit it is foolish, since there are naturalexplanations for everything I saw and heard, but it masters me none the less. If the oldstory had been all there was to it, I would not have been so badly shaken. My work as anAmerican Indian ethnologist has hardened me to all kinds of extravagant legendry, and Iknow that simple white people can beat the redskins at their own game when it comes tofanciful inventions. But I can't forget what I saw with my own eyes at the insane asylumin Guthrie.I called at that asylum because a few of the oldest settlers told me I would find somethingimportant there. Neither Indians nor white men would discuss the snake-god legends Ihad come to trace. The oil-boom newcomers, of course, knew nothing of such matters,and the red men and old pioneers were plainly frightened when I spoke of them. Notmore than six or seven people mentioned the asylum, and those who did were careful totalk in whispers. But the whisperers said that Dr. McNeill could shew me a very terriblerelic and tell me all I wanted to know. He could explain why Yig, the half-human father of serpents, is a shunned and feared object in central Oklahoma, and why old settlersshiver at the secret Indian orgies which make the autumn days and nights hideous withthe ceaseless beating of tom-toms in lonely places.It was with the scent of a hound on the trail that I went to Guthrie, for I had spent manyyears collecting data on the evolution of serpent-worship among the Indians. I had alwaysfelt, from well-defined undertones of legend and archaeology, that great Quetzalcoatl— benign snake-god of the Mexicans—had had an older and darker prototype; and duringrecent months I had well-nigh proved it in a series of researches stretching fromGuatemala to the Oklahoma plains. But everything was tantalising and incomplete, for above the border the cult of the snake was hedged about by fear and furtiveness. Now it appeared that a new and copious source of data was about to dawn, and I soughtthe head of the asylum with an eagerness I did not try to cloak. Dr. McNeill was a small,clean-shaven man of somewhat advanced years, and I saw at once from his speech andmanner that he was a scholar of no mean attainments in many branches outside his profession. Grave and doubtful when I first made known my errand, his face grewthoughtful as he carefully scanned my credentials and the letter of introduction which akindly old ex-Indian agent had given me."So you've been studying the Yig legend, eh?" he reflected sententiously. "I know thatmany of our Oklahoma ethnologists have tried to connect it with Quetzalcoatl, but I don't

The Curse of Yig

think any of them have traced the intermediate steps so well. You've done remarkablework for a man as young as you seem to be, and you certainly deserve all the data we cangive."I don't suppose old Major Moore or any of the others told you what it is I have here.They don't like to talk about it, and neither do I. It is very tragic and very horrible, butthat is all. I refuse to consider it anything supernatural. There's a story about it that I'll tellyou after you see it—a devilish sad story, but one that I won't call magic. It merely shewsthe potency that belief has over some people. I'll admit there are times when I feel ashiver that's more than physical, but in daylight I set all that down to nerves. I'm not ayoung fellow any more, alas!"To come to the point, the thing I have is what you might call a victim of Yig's curse—a physically living victim. We don't let the bulk of the nurses see it, although most of themknow it's here. There are just two steady old chaps whom I let feed it and clean out itsquarters—used to be three, but good old Stevens passed on a few years ago. I suppose I'llhave to break in a new group pretty soon; for the thing doesn't seem to age or changemuch, and we old boys can't last forever. Maybe the ethics of the near future will let usgive it a merciful release, but it's hard to tell."Did you see that single ground-glass basement window over in the east wing when youcame up the drive? That's where it is. I'll take you there myself now. You needn't makeany comment. Just look through the moveable panel in the door and thank God the lightisn't any stronger. Then I'll tell you the story—or as much as I've been able to piecetogether."We walked downstairs very quietly, and did not talk as we threaded the corridors of theseemingly deserted basement. Dr. McNeill unlocked a grey-painted steel door, but it wasonly a bulkhead leading to a further stretch of hallway. At length he paused before a door marked B 116, opened a small observation panel which he could use only by standing ontiptoe, and pounded several times upon the painted metal, as if to arouse the occupant,whatever it might be.A faint stench came from the aperture as the doctor unclosed it, and I fancied his pounding elicited a kind of low, hissing response. Finally he motioned me to replace himat the peep-hole, and I did so with a causeless and increasing tremor. The barred, ground-glass window, close to the earth outside, admitted only a feeble and uncertain pallor; andI had to look into the malodorous den for several seconds before I could see what wascrawling and wriggling about on the straw-covered floor, emitting every now and then aweak and vacuous hiss. Then the shadowed outlines began to take shape, and I perceivedthat the squirming entity bore some remote resemblance to a human form laid flat on its belly. I clutched at the door-handle for support as I tried to keep from fainting.The moving object was almost of human size, and entirely devoid of clothing. It wasabsolutely hairless, and its tawny-looking back seemed subtly squamous in the dim,ghoulish light. Around the shoulders it was rather speckled and brownish, and the headwas very curiously flat. As it looked up to hiss at me I saw that the beady little black eyes

The Curse of Yig

were damnably anthropoid, but I could not bear to study them long. They fastenedthemselves on me with a horrible persistence, so that I closed the panel gaspingly and leftthe creature to wriggle about unseen in its matted straw and spectral twilight. I must havereeled a bit, for I saw that the doctor was gently holding my arm as he guided me away. Iwas stuttering over and over again: "B-but for God's sake,

what is it?

"Dr. McNeill told me the story in his private office as I sprawled opposite him in an easy-chair. The gold and crimson of late afternoon changed to the violet of early dusk, but stillI sat awed and motionless. I resented every ring of the telephone and every whir of the buzzer, and I could have cursed the nurses and internes whose knocks now and thensummoned the doctor briefly to the outer office. Night came, and I was glad my hostswitched on all the lights. Scientist though I was, my zeal for research was half forgottenamidst such breathless ecstasies of fright as a small boy might feel when whisperedwitch-tales go the rounds of the chimney-corner.It seems that Yig, the snake-god of the central plains tribes—presumably the primalsource of the more southerly Quetzalcoatl or Kukulcan—was an odd, half-anthropomorphic devil of highly arbitrary and capricious nature. He was not wholly evil,and was usually quite well-disposed toward those who gave proper respect to him and hischildren, the serpents; but in the autumn he became abnormally ravenous, and had to bedriven away by means of suitable rites. That was why the tom-toms in the Pawnee,Wichita, and Caddo country pounded ceaselessly week in and week out in August,September, and October; and why the medicine-men made strange noises with rattles andwhistles curiously like those of the Aztecs and Mayas.Yig's chief trait was a relentless devotion to his children—a devotion so great that theredskins almost feared to protect themselves from the venomous rattlesnakes whichthronged the region. Frightful clandestine tales hinted of his vengeance upon mortals whoflouted him or wreaked harm upon his wriggling progeny; his chosen method being toturn his victim, after suitable tortures, to a spotted snake.In the old days of the Indian Territory, the doctor went on, there was not quite so muchsecrecy about Yig. The plains tribes, less cautious than the desert nomads and Pueblos,talked quite freely of their legends and autumn ceremonies with the first Indian agents,and let considerable of the lore spread out through the neighbouring regions of whitesettlement. The great fear came in the land-rush days of '89, when some extraordinaryincidents had been rumoured, and the rumours sustained, by what seemed to be hideouslytangible proofs. Indians said that the new white men did not know how to get on withYig, and afterward the settlers came to take that theory at face value. Now no old-timer inmiddle Oklahoma, white or red, could be induced to breathe a word about the snake-godexcept in vague hints. Yet after all, the doctor added with almost needless emphasis, theonly truly authenticated horror had been a thing of pitiful tragedy rather than of bewitchment. It was all very material and cruel—even that last phase which ha caused somuch dispute.Dr. McNeill paused and cleared his throat before getting down to his special story, and Ifelt a tingling sensation as when a theatre curtain rises. The thing had begun when Walker